A Story of Old Florida

This Story was written by my Mama, Mary Ann, who was born in 1947.

Our home in Central Florida was modestly furnished, simply decorated,

and lavishly adorned with love.

The chatter of happy children arose from the freshly scrubbed oakwood

floors below, to the rafters above, spilling out the open

windows and filling the air like a sweet perfume.

Spanish moss hung like long silvery tresses from the branches of the

live oaks.

The rain on the old tin roof gently soothed us to sleep and provided a

welcomed relief from steamy, sultry nights.

The familiar chorus of crickets and frogs was our lullaby, although a

visiting out-of-state friend informed us at breakfast that she

 hadn’t slept because of all the noise.

We had no idea what she meant.

 There were citrus groves everywhere, and in the spring, the

air was thickly scented with their aromatic fragrance that I

believed to be what heaven must smell like.

Soon after marriage, my parents planted an orange grove behind the

house.

The little seedlings sprouted and grew along with us.

We never made much profit from that old grove, but it was a vital part

of our childhood and our children’s childhood.

Ninety years have come and gone since my parents knelt down and planted

each Valencia seed by hand.

Now just a pile of old weathered sticks remain as a silent reminder of

glorious days gone by.

The trees no longer witness the joyful children enticed by their strong

branches, heavy with fruit, inviting them to sit under their circle of shade and eat their fill.

Nor do they bear any resemblance to the grand figures that once

watched over us as we played.

 Memories bring to mind the joy of those days, and the majesty

of the old grove comes to life in our hearts once again.